Bent and Beat

under the concrete slab you poured

over the broken telephone and rusted headboard, old carpet and couch and a unicycle wheel

over all of the other refuse you used as fill for the deep circular well

that never in my memory held water

you packed the void with stones and dirt

and spent the entire next day spreading the mortar you mixed from scratch

the oldest hands i had ever seen, crease twisted and brittle yellow nails

smoothing over the surface of the pool

i cannot remember your face, the years obscure it as the grass and weeds erode the work you did in your final summer

and when i am gone the last person to have known you will be gone

and there will be nothing left of you and little left of me

nor will there be any one left who knows of the fountain that was once there